


I'll be good, I'll be good

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1930's flashbacks, Angst and Feels, Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Little Dialogue, M/M, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Sad with a somewhat happy ending, Stucky - Freeform, honestly whats wrong with me, how he found his apartment and his weekly routines, i'm actually writing while tipsy and that makes me sad and sappy so, now you have to suffer with me, the story of bucky's life after the potomac, toward the end, why cant I stop writing sad fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-24
Updated: 2016-07-24
Packaged: 2018-07-26 09:55:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7569679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(for all of the sparks that I've stomped out)</p><p>There is a light in Bucky. A flickering candle with sharp edges that throw off shadows in the blinding light of day. Sometimes it ghosts along the sidewalk and peacefully collects bottle caps. Other times it grips his throat tight and grinds a heavy boot onto his chest until he wakes up with a strangled silent scream. On those nights he sees moonlight as violent, sunshine as mockery. He's not entirely sure which is better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be good, I'll be good

**Author's Note:**

> I'll be good, I'll be good  
> for all of the light that I shut out  
> for all of the innocent things that I doubt  
> for all of the bruises that I've caused and the tears  
> for all of the things that I've done all these years  
> yeah, for all of the sparks that I've stomped out  
> for all of the perfect things that I doubt

_[I'll be a better man today]_

There is a light in Bucky. A flickering candle with sharp edges that throw off shadows in the blinding luster of day. Sometimes it ghosts along the sidewalk and peacefully collects bottle caps. Other times it grips his throat tight and grinds a heavy boot onto his chest until he wakes up with a strangled silent scream. On those nights he sees moonlight as violent, sunshine as mockery. He's not entirely sure which is better.

This unstable see saw of emotion finds him bartering with aged hands and a weathered face. Snow white hair from a time before this time is messily combed over, hardly contained with pomade and he has to blink a couple times to clear his vision because he should be this man with all of his wrinkles and stories etched onto narrow face. It is one of many things that he mourns.

"I'll cut you a deal, young man. Seeing as the place isn't much more than a hovel I'd feel wrong asking you to pay rent for it." The man pauses and fishes in his pocket for the key before continuing.

"If you don't cause any racket or break anything you can pay me back by doing some minor repairs on the inside. The tiles a little chipped but it's fixable. Should be some furniture in there that's a little dusty but it'll work in a pinch if you're desperate."

Bucky makes an attempt at what he hopes comes off as a genuine smile and shakes the man's hand in agreement.

+

The exterior of the building is chipped and damaged as if it too were buckling under the weight of existing. Glass windows reveal years of smudges and dust along the sills. Bucky has never felt more at home.

He pauses inside of the doorway and closes his eyes.

Brooklyn, 1939. Steve is beating a worn rug against the metal balcony and coughing as dust fills the air. Bucky steps up behind him and takes the rug in one hand as Steve huffs - "I had it, Buck. Didn't [cough] need your [cough] help."

Brooklyn, 1940. They're pasting newspaper upon the apartment walls in order to seal in the warmth and force out the cold. Steve squints at the papers as he plasters two over top of their shared bed. Bucky pokes him in the ribs. "You can read 'em tonight. It's getting late and Ms. Nowakowski in 4D says it's looking like snow soon." Steve does just that when he can't sleep. The headline on his side of the bed reads _"Snowfall Expected Early This Year; 5-6" Likely"_ and Steve shivers. Bucky feigns tossing and turning in his sleep, effectively kicking most of the covers in Steve's direction.

The shriek of a loud car horn brings him back to the present with a level of noise that would've never fit in with New York in the 1930's and '40's.

The door handle wobbles in his hand as he closes it behind him. He makes a note to repair it soon.

The entirety of the apartment is housed in one modestly sized room. Kitchen, living room, small bathroom to the side and what appears to be a makeshift sleeping area. The walls are yellowed with age and sparsely covered with torn wallpaper. Open shelves over top of the sink house various kitchenware alongside a short refrigerator that is pushed up against the counters. There's even a small wooden table that's currently wedged against the sofa. If it wasn't for the back door with its two square glass panels he'd almost mistake the place for tenement housing. He feels safer already.

The first step in securing a location is to safeguard it.

"Sorry pal. This shouldn't damage the place too bad though," he murmurs to himself as he removes several loose floorboards and crams a bug out bag inside. Next he removes every shelf in the refrigerator and fills the space with pilfered ammunition and firearms.

+

When nightfall slips in with razor sharp teeth he doesn't wake to hard concrete under his back or birds picking at the remains of what little food he has. He's momentarily confused when he wakes mid sleep and gropes the second hand mattress in the dark. Springs dig into his arm as he groans and surrenders to four a.m. with all of its madness. Instant coffee in a chipped cup it is.

He swirls the spoon around in the cup and it becomes something else entirely.

It's 1936 and Steve is painting with old coffee. Bucky lies half on, half off of Sarah Rogers couch as he watches. Steve's brow furrows in concentration as he fills in a pencil outline; swirls his paintbrush in the liquid repeatedly until the color is to his liking. Rain taps on the rooftop as the electric flickers but Steve notices none of this. He's more stubborn than most and if the power were to go out right now he'd likely strike a match and paint by candlelight. Bucky falls asleep to the rhythm of raindrops, the gentle slosh of paintbrush in a stained cup and thunder in the distance.

In the present sleep continues to evade him and so he pulls out a journal that he'd stolen only days after seeing his own face reflected at the Smithsonian. Its pages are filled with messy scrawl and fragments that make sense in his head despite looking like nothing more than chaos.

 _April 1936_. _Steve is painting,_ he begins.

+

Two months after moving in, he replaces the door knob. It no longer wobbles in his palm and he does not give the landlord a spare key. Privacy is top priority.

+

Thursday is laundry day. Long sleeved shirts are washed by hand then carefully hung to dry by the radiator.

On Saturdays he visits Eva at the fruit stand. She has warm eyes that remind him of his mothers and she's forever going on about the weather, her grandchildren or Mr. Bellar that lives in 6C. He's taking her to dinner next Friday at six and Bucky is happy for her. She deserves nice things.

She does not ask personal questions or anything more than Bucky is willing to give and the darkness in him dissipates more and more with every doting smile. The candle flickers in the wind but glows brighter.

Mondays are reserved for turning off all of the lights in the small apartment and allowing memories to sweep him under. It's a necessary evil and ends with pages upon pages of jumbled scribbles. These memories are his whether they are good or bad and he's taking them back.

He collects a newspaper from the stand on the corner on Tuesdays. After soaking up every word he tacks them to the glass panels on the back door. It dims the sunlight and casts the room in a haze but privacy is not a privilege. It is a necessity and his eyes will learn to adjust.

Fridays are reserved for doing repairs on Mr. Paltre (the landlord, respectively) 's tiny home. Mr. Paltre insists upon paying him for his troubles and that money goes toward food. Namely chocolate bars, coffee, canned soup and fruit.

Sundays are a wildcard but mostly he wanders. He visits Muzeul de Arta al Romaniei (National Museum of Art of Romania) and admires the intricate patterns upon the domed ceilings. He takes in the lush green trees that stand guard beside of emerald green benches in the park and sometimes he even tosses bits of bread to the birds that gather.

+

Time passes, the journal grows fat with words and the tiny flame inside of Bucky's chest bravely continues to shine even on the darkest nights. He takes to sleeping on the couch and neatly lining his boots up beside of the back door. Dishes are washed and tucked away after usage, floorboards are checked periodically to ensure that nothing under them is missing and a stack of newspaper collects upon another side table (Mr Paltre gave it to him on a Friday and its legs are uneven but it works). He scans the headlines first then layers them over the older fading papers along the backdoor.

+

He has lived there for two years and one month when Steve Rogers, flesh and bone, is standing in his kitchen looking like American freedom incarnate. In his hand he clutches the journal, flips to a bookmarked page. Bucky stiffly watches from the back wall as Steve takes notice of the creased pamphlet with his face on it. Yeah that thing had gotten Bucky through many nights filled with nightmares and cold sweats. He'd actually spoken to it once or twice and slept with it like his mind had completely snapped but Steve didn't need to know that.

He lies straight through his teeth about only recognizing Steve because of the museum exhibit but Steve is just as stubborn as he remembers. The lie falters and falls flat.

It's funny, Bucky thinks to himself, he never thought death would be this beautiful. Because this is it. Nothing good can come of Steve finally catching up to him. As Steve's pitch heightens and his tone takes on a note of panic, Bucky realizes that this place is no longer his home. It was merely a stand in for the real thing.

The door splinters, he only kind of dies.

+

There is the hint of rapidly flickering candlelight inside of Bucky that is only visible to Steve even as it wanes in the sterile interior of T'Challa's medical wing. He is traveling light today, leaving home with slumped shoulders and a lump in his throat.

He repeats the words he'd rehearsed and rehashed inside of his head as if they were a script. "Going back under is what's best....for everyone."

If Bucky were a candle flickering uncertainly then Steve would be the flame that keeps him going. He hasn't burnt out yet.

+

He watches as the light fades from Steve's eyes and he has the words to make it all better but sometimes what Steve _wants_ is not always what he _needs._ The room dims until everything is pitch black as the cold overtakes him. Somewhere in the darkness there is the whisper of his name and a shorter version of Steve swirling his paintbrush in a coffee cup.

"You're late," he says.

Bucky slowly approaches this Steve as if he might disappear in a puff of smoke.

His voice comes out less scratchy than it had before Hydra had broken him. "Whatcha drawing?"

Steve stands and stretches his back. "Come'ere."

Bucky closes the distance as Steve holds the painting up next to Bucky's head. "Looks just like you. See?"

If Steve notices the bandaged remains of Bucky's left arm, he does not mention it nor does he stare. In fact he ignores it altogether.

His own eyes stare back at him from the paper. They're not nearly as bright as they once were and his hair sweeps past his chin but he is smiling so hard that it reflects in his eyes. At his side a more muscular and taller version of Steve has an arm thrown over Bucky's shoulder and hand resting on his chest until they're leaning up against one another. He's absolutely beaming.

"Yeah," Bucky replies shakily. "It really does."

"Well?," Steve prods.

Tears collect in Bucky's eyes as he passes the artwork back to Steve. They continue to fall even as Steve's face softens and he pulls Bucky's head down to a bony shoulder. The only sound he makes is a squeak of protest when Bucky holds on too tightly.

"You sure about this?," Steve's voice comes out muffled against Bucky's white shirt as he runs his fingers through Bucky's hair, attempting to calm him.

Bucky nuzzles into the crook of Steve's neck, murmurs against his skin. " 'mm always sure when it comes to you."

The flame glows a dazzling shade of sunset orange. 

Steve Rogers is what's best for Bucky Barnes.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from "I'll be good" by jaymes young and it makes me cry so keep that in mind https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mkMVyw-7avI
> 
> [P.S. the sketch is their future that bucky is dreaming of while in cryo. don't worry, it'll come true]


End file.
